Of Biblical ProportionEgypt missing scenes
by lowri
Summary: Because so many of the flashbacks were edited from Of Biblical Proportion, I have assembled them into their own story.


Disclaimer: All things Highlander belong to Panzer/Davis. I've just borrowed their fabulous characters to answer another of those pesky questions that plagued me after the show ended. Several character names were taken from Margaret George's book, The Memoirs of Cleopatra. See the author's notes at the end for more details from the story. 

When I first began this tale, it was supposed to be mostly set back in time, during the end of Cleopatra's reign, with only a minimum of action taking place in the present. Somehow that endeavor changed and most of the flashbacks were cut out. What I have done here is combined the parts set in Alexandria into a story of its own. There are sections that are identical to parts in Of Biblical Proportions, but this has the background story as well. 

I would like to thank my betas Shomeret and Janeen Grohsmeyer. Together they have helped me build a better story.

Of Biblical Proportions-Egypt Flashback portion

Alexandria-c. 33 BCE

Methos jumped out of the small barge that had carried him across the Nile. It had been a long and arduous journey from the city of Laodicea. He had studied medicine there for several seasons and had learned to make the miraculous eye salve. In his sack was a gift for Cleopatra, a black wool cape, suitable for nocturnal ventures. Even Egypt sometimes got cold. He had aspirations of working in the famed Museion--a literary treasure trove. As a learned scribe and world traveler, he hoped to engage the queen enough for her to allow his employment--despite his lack of "proper" credentials and introductions. It had been over two hundred years since he'd last been in Alexandria. He was curious to view the changes.

The crowd of people jostled him as he walked up the embankment and onto the road. After a few steps the lighthouse came into view. Methos decided to take a detour and see the magnificent landmark up close. Ptolemy Philadelphos had been casting about for labor to have the building erected, when Methos had decided it would be safer in another city. He'd had his fill in the past working on the pyramids to want employment in this latest project. 

The lighthouse master was directing a load of wood inside, which several slaves were carrying. Methos could see a pile of logs higher than two men against one of the interior walls. A cart drawn by four horses waited in the heat as the load they carried was emptied. It was a magnificent edifice, Methos thought to himself as he gazed upon it.

"Hey, you!" the Lighthouse master yelled at Methos.

The immortal pointed to himself with a question in his eyes.

"Yes, you. What do you want?"

"I've just come from Rome," Methos lied, "and have heard about this wonder. You must burn an enormous amount of wood to keep the fires going night and day."

"It is hard work. Is that what you're looking for? Work?"

"No. I'm on my way to the Museion. I just stopped to admire--"

"I don't have time to talk to every visitor to Alexandria. On your way."

Methos nodded and turned away. Maybe at a later date he'd come back to view the inside. This was something that should be described in his journals. Not once did he regret not staying. For now he would concentrate on the imperative--gaining access to the Museion.

Venders selling fruits and bread lined the streets. Tables and carts flooded the area, covered in everything from silk to calfskin. Methos stopped by one of the tables and purchased three calfskins for future writing. Calfskin was a much better buy than sheepskin because of durability. He expected to live a long life, which meant his journals had to last a long time. As a three thousand-year-old Immortal, he considered himself a strong competitor in the game. Not many others had his power or experience, he believed arrogantly.

Methos continued down the road toward the royal palace. The large stone buildings towered over most other dwellings, except for the temples. Those he avoided. The last thing he wanted to do was donate his hard-earned money to the local god. Each monarch seemed to prefer one god over another and it made him dizzy trying to keep up. However, with a woman queen, Isis would be prominent. 

Lost in his thoughts, Methos almost missed the front of the building he had come so far to invade. He looked with reverence at the high marble pillars with the sculpted muses along the top-- the nine muses of creative thought. A deep longing to once more be a part of the inner sanctum overcame sensible reason. With a deep breath, he entered. How much had been added since he last walked under these hallowed archways?

"I am Apollonius, the head librarian. Can I help you?"

Methos was startled, as the man seemed to appear from nowhere. "I am Metopholus. I wish to study from the great works stored here."

The old man stared intently at him. "Will you have something to add to our collection?"

Bribery at its highest form--this Methos understood. "I have come recently from Laodicea, where I studied with some great medical minds. I have some of their observations on scrolls."

"You are a scribe?"

"Yes, and a doctor. I have studied extensively in Rome, then Athens, then through many of the great cities in Asia Minor and Syria. Now I have come to Egypt." It felt like he was back home, Methos thought to himself.

"Your hair is a paler color than the Romans I am accustomed to seeing," the librarian stated tartly.

"No, I was born further north. When Caesar came through and conquered Gaul, I was made a Roman citizen." Methos gave a fake smile. "I was taken by a centurion as a servant. When he finally returned to Rome, he saw my mind was bent on learning so he sent me to the finest schools where I learned philosophy and medicine. I have never enjoyed the intricacies of government. Too complex for my taste."

"Fine. We can always use a good scribe. Do you want work or are you just planning on studying during the day?"

"Work and a place to stay. Can you recommend a good establishment?" Methos was hoping to stay on the palace grounds.

Apollonius appeared deep in thought. "There are several good places in the city that cater to a man with money. Or, if you wish, I can ask and see if there is a room available here at the Museion. Many of our scholars prefer to live here. Your choice."

"Living here would suit me." Methos was eager to begin. 

"Let me find someone to show you the different rooms we have here. Today, you learn your way around. Tomorrow morning, I shall assign you a series of articles you will need to learn and then be tested on. There's Nebamun. He's equal to the task." The old librarian left Methos standing alone and walked over to talk privately to the other scholar. Soon both returned. Nebamun looked pleased to have been given this duty.

"I am pleased to meet you, Metopholus." Nebamun held out his arm to grasp Methos in the Roman way of greeting. 

Methos returned the gesture. "I am anxious to see this beautiful place of learning. I have heard about it in many lands."

Nebamun led him from the front deeper into the inner sanctum. The rooms were large with ceilings that went high into the sky. Each of them was connected like links in a chain. Just beneath the ceiling, along the perimeter of the various rooms, was a series of windows. This enabled the readers to take advantage of sunlight during the day. Marble tables and benches were arranged around the open floor. Several benches were occupied, with scrolls spread out and people hard at work reading them. 

Methos wanted to join them now. So much knowledge was there for the taking. He had read the whole collection the last time he had been here, and he eagerly awaited reading the new additions.

"Let me show you where we keep the many texts we have stored here." Nebamun led him across the room and opened a door leading into a much smaller room. Shelves ran all around the walls, with many scrolls lying on them. It resembled a beehive with each scroll making a cell. "You see, there are labels identifying the individual works."

"I see them." Methos went over and touched a wooden nametag, tied to the knobs. "This says Herophilus of Chalcedon."

"He was a master of Alexandrian medicine two hundred years ago," his guide explained. "Many of our current physicians make a point of learning his work." 

Methos remembered the doctor well. They had studied together and argued over the many fine points of healing and ridding the body of ill humors. Herophilus had been a master of bones and how they came together.

"Over here in the baskets are the multi-scrolled collections," Nebamun continued. "Their labels are located on the basket's handles."

Methos was very impressed with the way it was all organized. Instead of adding indiscriminately to the shelves, they had invented an identification system. It hadn't been present two hundred years ago. "I am very interested in the medical writings. Could we come back later?"

"Of course. Shall we find Apollonius? He has probably located a place for you to sleep."

Methos nodded, but gave a last lingering look at the many scrolls stored in the room. Soon, he promised himself. The necessities first.

Apollonius was just coming through the large entryway into the large reading room. "I have good news for you, my friend. There is room for you in the student's dormitory. Several have just left to carry out familial and temple duties. Does this please you?"

"Very much," Methos replied with a grateful smile. "I look forward to my learning experience under your careful tutelage."

"You take a lot for granted, young man. I am very busy. What makes you think I will take care of your education personally?"

"I am an exceptional student. I think you will want to take advantage of the knowledge I already possess. If only for the reputed eye salve I have learned to make," Methos mentioned slyly. He wanted to be a senior researcher, so he would have unlimited access to the numerous scrolls. To start on the bottom rung of the hierarchy was unthinkable. It would take too long to earn the master's confidence. The signs were present that Egypt would soon come under Octavian's dominance, and Methos wanted to be long gone before war broke out.

"Before we make elaborate promises, we'll see what you can do. Nebamun, take Metopholus to the Everlasting Light Room. You will like it there," Apollonius assured Methos. "The windows are strategically placed to allow for the maximum amount of sunlight in a day. You will share it with only three others."

Methos couldn't tell if the head librarian was scolding him for his impudence, or if indeed this was a good room. "Thank you, master. It will allow me to use my time to the utmost." Methos turned to follow Nebamun when he remembered the black wool cloak and turned back to Apollonius to say, "Do you have the ear of Queen Cleopatra? I have a gift for her from the mountains of Laodicea." He pulled out the black wool bundle and saw the two men's eyes widen in appreciation. 

"You must have held a place of some importance there," Apollonius commented, piercing Methos with his direct gaze.

"I did," Methos admitted.

"I will see that she gets it." The librarian went to take the cloak.

"No." Methos pulled it out of his grasp. "I would prefer to present this to her myself." The immortal turned to his guide. "I'm ready to see my quarters now."

Apollonius nodded to Nebamun. Methos smiled inwardly. No doubt, Cleopatra would have received the gift, but the giver would have been Apollonius. He would have to watch his step. The Ptolemy dynasty were known for their lack of loyalty--to anyone--especially members of their own family. It appeared her officials shared the same philosophy.

As the two men traversed the many passageways through the library, out onto a courtyard, then into another palace building, Methos remembered the first Ptolemy and how much he had despised the man. Alexander had known his general well. Ptolemy's placement as the ruler of Egypt had been a deliberate part of Alexander's strategy to keep his newly won lands under Greek influence. The Ptolemy family had remained in power for many generations, despite their familial assassinations. Cleopatra was the first woman to head the family, and Methos was curious to meet her. 

"This is where you can sleep." Nebamun led him into a large airy room with six beds made of woven reeds. Each had a wooden headrest. A vent on the roof let in the north wind. At the moment, the room was an oven. But when the sun set, Methos was sure the wind off the sea would cool it down nicely.

The sound of a group of men conversing together interrupted their discourse. Nebamun stepped aside as three others entered the room. They were of different nationalities, yet they all talked in Greek. 

"This is Metopholus," Nebamun introduced Methos. "And this is Arqamani, Martius, and Labrienus."

Methos nodded his greetings. The three men all wore the tunic, a native form of clothing.

"Are you Roman?" Labrienus asked with suspicion clouding his voice.

"No. I come from a conquered land. A centurion named me."

The three looked at him with interest. "Do you remember the name given to you by your parents?" Martius spoke, his voice pitched high, indicating that he might be a eunuch. It was common to find them studying; their masters funded their education in order for them to better serve when the eunuchs return home. Methos laughed at the irony of a eunuch named after the god of war, Mars.

"Goibnui," Methos lied, as he named himself after the Celtic god of iron.

Nebamun inserted, "He is new here. Apollonius has placed him with you. Make sure he gets to the Clio Reading Room tomorrow. He will take up his beginning studies there."

"We will see to it," Labrienus promised.

Methos could see that this Roman was the leader of the three. He would do better to let him continue his role. "Are all the reading rooms named after a muse?" the Immortal asked.

"There are more reading rooms than muses, but yes, each muse has a room named after her. You have been assigned Clio, who presides over history. I think Apollonius wishes you to learn Egyptian history first."

Methos laughed to himself. What would the good librarian do if he learned how Methos had shaped Egyptian history? He knew in detail how Egypt overthrew the Hyksos. The warm memory of Nebet made his eyes water. It was so long ago--fifteen hundred years had passed--but it felt like yesterday.

"Metopholus, are you unwell?" Martius asked, concerned.

"I am fine," he responded. "I have dust in my eyes from my long journey."

"I'll get a basin of water for you to wash." Arqamani was speeding on his errand. This one must spend most of his time attending to the other two. His learned role of servant was deeply ingrained.

"Here you are." Arqamani placed the round bowl on the floor and back away from it.

"Thank you." Methos was grateful for the water. He dipped an edge of his tunic into the water and proceeded to wash his dusty face.

"We are going into the city now to get some refreshment and some drinks. Are you too tired," Labrienus asked snidely, "or do you wish to join us?"

"I am not too tired, only dirty." Methos wrung out the excess water and stood. "I would like to join you."

The four left the boarding rooms of the Museion. They walked past the steps leading up to the library. Methos admired once more the marble pillars and statues. Ahead were the law courts and the Gymnasion. 

"Alexander's tomb is ahead. Do you wish to pay your respects?" Labrienus asked him.

Methos nodded. The priests were scurrying around as he walked into the shrine. His companions waited outside. He knelt at Alexander's feet and said a few words in the ancient Macedonian tongue that the great commander would understand if he were listening. Standing, he left behind his offering, a Greek coin minted with Alexander's head on one side and Antipater's on the other. It was a priceless memento, approximately three hundred years old.

After the shrine, they skirted the forum and headed into an area thick with vendors selling fresh fruits and smoked fish. Methos made his selection and followed the others to an empty space where they sat down to eat their fare. Next, they left the turmoil of the street and entered a tavern for something to wash down the food. 

"Some Chian wine for me and my friends," Labrienus demanded from the server.

Methos would have preferred beer, but refrained from making his thoughts known. Beer was the drink of laborers, not scholars.

"Tell us, Metopholus," Martius asked, showing great interest, "of where you came from. I was fostered in the home of Praetor Hirtius. He raised me with the knowledge that my place was to keep his accounts. You see, the family owns a large vineyard in the northern regions and after I'm educated, my duty is to see to the management of the vineyard's finances."

Methos nodded; the story was obviously familiar to the other two. Now, it was his turn to answer about his travels. "I come from a land north from here. Further north than even your vineyard. Caesar and his armies conquered my village and one of his generals took me for his own. I grew strong and he noticed that I had an aptitude for learning. He sent me to the finest schools in both Rome and Greece, where I learned alchemy and medicine." Methos thought that the story was plausible, even if it wasn't true.

"Now you've come to read the writings of the greatest physicians in the world," Labrienus inserted. "My specialty is mathematics. I enjoy astronomy and find that I can use numbers to predict celestial phenomena."

"What of your birthplace?" Arqamani asked timidly. "I was born in Rome. My father, Sallustius, was a centurion in Caesar's army. Now he sits on the Senate, thankful to have survived Octavian's rise in power." He paused and drank some of his wine. "I never knew my mother. She was Gaelic," he explained as if that fact explained everything. In some respects, it did. Romans believed the tribes native to Gaul were barbarians, and worthy only of contempt.

Methos ignored the question about his birthplace. He didn't know it, anyway. "Then we are cousins, of sorts. You should feel proud of your heritage, for the Celts are a complex people. They believe in mother earth and the power in nature. I am happy to know both Roman and Celtic philosophy."

Labrienus looked skeptical. "So you can call on either, as the mood and situation suits."

"True," Methos said with a laugh. "And have done so many times. Celtic tradition doesn't allow for the written word. They rely on their bards to keep the oral history. Some of the songs can be quite long and very beautiful." Methos let the joy of the memory light up his face. "I began training to hold such a position in my tribe. I even remember some of the stories. Would you like to hear any?"

"Do you play the harp, too?" Labrienus asked, trying to sound disdainful, but he leaned forward in his chair, inadvertently revealing his interest.

"I play several instruments, including the harp."

"It's too noisy in here. We'd never hear the words." Martius drained his cup of wine. "Let us find a secluded place where he can play and sing without interruption."

"I have no instrument," Methos told them solemnly. 

"We can find one. Surely, Apollonius has one a the Museion." Martius was standing urging the others to hurry. "I am eager to hear authentic Celtic stories."

"Do you prefer ones about war or love?" Methos asked as they walked out of the tavern and merged out onto the busy street.

"Battles," Labrienus responded quickly.

"Love," Arqamani muttered a second later.

"Oral histories do not always include those two topics." Martius wrinkled his nose. "What of religion and ceremonies for their gods? I wish to hear about them."

Methos thought. He didn't know any that encompassed all three. As they strode down the road, the sun was setting, casting reddish shadows over the road. A breeze kicked up, cooling his wine-flushed face. "Tonight I will sing of Elras. There is a little love, a little religion, and something of Celtic tradition."

"No war?" Labrienus sounded disappointed.

"No war, but mention of warriors."

That seemed to satisfy him.

The four men returned to the palace grounds. Apollonius found a harp, old but it still retained a full complement of brass wires. It greatly resembled the kind of instrument he had used before and fit comfortably upon his shoulder. When he had been a bard in a former lifetime, his harp had traveled constantly with him. It was either safely wrapped in a protective leather satchel, or he had carried it open, ready to strum or pluck a tune at the slightest inspiration. 

Instead of retiring to their room, Arqamani told them of a secluded place near a garden. Methos followed them, gazing at the palace grounds while admiring the buildings' architecture, statues and plants growing in strategic places. It was beautiful. Egypt was rich to be able to spend so much on aesthetics.

Methos tuned the instrument, then began to play in earnest. He let the harp communicate its personality to him; the tone, the way it resonated, was important to the story. When he felt comfortable, he began the story.

"A very old oak tree dominated the southern edge of a village. Her sprawling branches shaded a large portion of a meadow that deer and rabbits bounded in freely. No hunters killed game within her presence, for she was sacred. The villagers believed that she was a physical representation of the Mother. They came to her and prayed. Lambs and calves were sacrificed to her every spring to ensure a plentiful harvest."

"What, no virgins?" Labrienus complained loudly.

Methos pretended he hadn't heard the comment. "Druids interpreted the Mother's wishes to the rest of the tribe. The wind rustling her branches was a language only they could understand. The oak tree, however, was able to understand the people. They came and talked to her every day. Sometimes, only to make conversation. Sometimes, to wish for something. At night, she sent out her minions to grant worthy requests. Sun and rain obeyed her command, as did wolves and other predators. She called upon her faeries when magic was needed. Everyone in the village had a different story to tell of how the faeries had helped them.

"One girl, almost grown to womanhood, sat and listened to the tales and wondered when her turn would come. Elras spent most of her days dreaming. She would tie flowers within her long strands of hair and pretend that she was a faery. Dancing among the goldenrod and timothy, she dreamed the most important dream of all. She fancied a handsome warrior would ride into the meadow, sweep her up onto his horse and ride away with her. Her father's voice, calling her in to dinner, drifted past her on the wind. The world she imagined was more powerful than real life.

"This father knew his daughter well. He understood her trips into the otherworld and worried about her future. What man wanted a dreamer? Most wanted a woman who took care of his home and children. Elras was incapable of such mundane tasks."

"Was she beautiful?" Arqamani asked, with a faraway look in his eyes.

"Very," Methos replied. "That spring, just after the planting, her older sister married a warrior from a neighboring tribe. Elras attended the ceremony under the canopy of the large oak, while her mind dwelt on the warrior who would come and claim her. Would he be as tall as her new brother?

"One afternoon, when the sun was high overhead, three men rode into the village upon black horses. The horses had long flowing manes and fluffy hair growing around their hooves. She gazed upon them with awe. The elders fed the men, who in turn told them news. The words were musical to her ears, but she understood little of what they said. One man took off his mail, unbuttoned his tunic, revealing a strong chest. When he moved, muscles rippled, making her catch her breath. His eye caught hers and he smiled. She returned the smile, her face flushed with longing."

Methos noticed several people join them by the garden. One woman was draped in silk, her black hair covered, standing off to the side. "Please continue," she asked. "You have me mesmerized."

Methos complied. "Later that night, Elras saw the warrior talking to her father. She dreamed of her marriage, beneath the shelter of the old oak tree. His hand would caress her face. She would press close. He would love her.

"In the morning, she rushed out to see the warrior, but he was gone. The three strangers had left. Her world felt empty. She ran to the tree, fell to her knees--crying in anguish. Huge tears fell to the ground, giving nourishment to the Mother.

"The village bard, a young man of twenty-five summers named Lugard, sat at the edge of the meadow, strumming his harp, looking on sadly." Methos was the bard, playing the sad melody.

"Days went by," he continued. "The dark warrior was forgotten. Her fourteenth birthday came. She was officially a woman--old enough to marry. Who would her father choose? Several warriors from surrounding villages came to court her. She admired their looks. One was so handsome that he took her breath away. He would practice his sword with other warriors from their village-- and she admired his fine form. His skin would glisten with sweat. She would bring him water and long to touch his muscular arms. He made an offer for her. It was refused.

"The wise oak tree listened to her lamentations, but did nothing. No faeries came to change her father's mind. Each time she came to the tree, the village bard sat on the edge of the meadow, played his harp, and gazed at her with pity--and love."

Again Methos played the sad music. His audience was entranced as much by the music as by the words. He loved being a story-teller. The power to enrapture and entertain was heady.

"Harvest time arrived. Opportunities for marriage were few during the winter months. People did not travel. Men went out hunting to feed their families. Sons were required to help. Snow swirled and coated the ground. Time crept by ever so slowly. She dreamed of sinew and grace.

"The oak tree began to bud. A new year was beginning. Leaves slowly took up the empty spaces between the wooden branches. Elras came to pray for her warrior. Would he come soon? The bard sat at the edge of the meadow, under the warmth of the bright spring sun, playing a soft romantic tune that filled her heart with longing.

"She walked over and sat next to him. He gave her a soft smile as he continued to wring emotion from his instrument. Sweat beaded on his forehead as his music gained in intensity. His fingers flew over the strings. Words accompanied the music. She heard the sound and the meaning became clear to her. His arm was tense with his fingers flying over the strings with the intensity of the music. Tentatively she reached up and caressed his arm--the music stopped abruptly. 'I have waited two long years for this,' he told her hoarsely. Then he kissed the tip of her nose."

There was a collected sigh from the group of people congregated around Methos. "Her father gave them permission to marry. When she asked why he had refused her previous suitors, he replied, 'You live in the clouds--soaring with the birds. You dance in the meadows with the faeries. A snowflake enthralls you for hours. A warrior has no such awareness. There must be a harmony of spirits between man and wife, and only Lugard the bard would make my daughter's soul happy."

Methos strummed a few more notes and then set the instrument down. There was silence. Even Labrienus had tears in his eyes.

"That was wonderful." Linen and silks swirled as the woman reached down to grasp Methos' hands in appreciation. "You must come up to the palace and entertain me again."

It was then that Methos realized that it was Cleopatra who stood before him. He awkwardly rose to his feet and bowed. "I am honored, my lady."

Two burly men wearing the uniform of the Macedonian Household Guards flanked the queen, alert to any threat. She seemed to be ignoring them, but their presence was probably just a part of her life. Methos found it hard to forget them.

"You have a gift for story telling. A way of transporting the listener into the story. What is your position in my court?" Cleopatra eyed him eagerly.

"I am studying at the Museion."

"Are you a scholar?"

"I am."

She smiled widely. "Have Apollonius bring you up tomorrow morning, before the sun becomes hot."

Methos agreed and watched in admiration as she returned to her chambers. 

An elbow jabbed him in the ribs. "Don't fancy yourself a love interest," Labrienus warned. "She is firmly wound around Marc Antony's fingers. She prefers powerful Roman generals. You are not such a man."

Methos understood. He was glad Labrienus brought him back from his fantasies. Even though he was equal to such a warrior, he needed to stay unnoticed. Alexandria was going to fall and he didn't want to get trapped inside. But, what a woman! She had enough charisma to attract any man.

The next morning, the sound of someone pounding on the door awakened him. His roommates opened heavy lids but did little else but groan. Methos stood and opened the door. Apollonius was waiting outside. 

"The queen wants to see you now." He sounded disgruntled.

Methos grabbed his sack containing the woolen cloak. He would find an opportunity to present it to her. Perhaps he would sing a ballad about the sheep giving him the wool in order to honor the Egyptian queen. He laughed at the absurdity.

"You have intrigued her. You had better be up to the challenge," Apollonius told him, warningly. They entered the grand palace and ascended the stairs leading to the queen's private chambers. "I have heard of Celtic bards. Were you one?"

"I began my training before wars upon my tribe forced me to give up the endeavor. I regret not finishing my training. I had completed the waking and sleeping rituals and was attempting to memorize the tribal histories when the Romans attacked."

"You must have been but a boy." Apollonius almost sounded sympathetic for his plight.

Methos started to make another understatement when Apollonius led him through an archway. The view silenced him. Macedonian Household Guards stood at attention, eyeing them suspiciously, but doing nothing to hinder their progress. The guards were stationed at many places, acting as palace security, guides and most likely as bodyguards for the queen.

"Come in, Apollonius and Metopholus," a melodious voice entreated. "I'll be right with you."

Cleopatra was lounging on a couch, with three sides draped with white silk netting. She was reading silently from a scroll while three men in voluminous robes stood by. They said something to her in Arabic, which made her smile and nod her head. Unfortunately Methos couldn't quite hear what they had said. The three men turned abruptly and walked out through the archway.

"I've been doing statecraft since before the sun rose, and now I need some relaxation time. Metopholus, would you sit right here," she pointed to a couch situated next to her, "and play me one of your songs."

"Many of the stories I recite are in the language of the Gauls. The translations lose the flavor of the original ballad."

"Sing in Gaulish. Caesar must have listened to countless of these while on his campaigns. He told me of the beauty of the language."

Methos doubted Caesar took the trouble to listen to the barbarians. A warlord was generally unsympathetic to the conquered. He should know. "As you wish." He began plucking the strings, finding a rhythm and searching his memory for a suitable song. It was possible that she knew this Celtic tongue and was hiding the fact to test his competence. Cleopatra was known to be adept at many languages.

Inspiration assaulted him. Instead of singing a well-rehearsed ballad, a new story crept from his lips and harp. It was more of a biographical history about himself and his introduction into his adopted profession. He sang in Gaulish and let the lilting tones express the emotion.

"Soorgeh slept fitfully, wondering when they would come for him. The planting moon was finally setting, leaving his room in dark and shadow. Night sounds drifted through the door, leaving him unsettled. When the sun rose, he gave grateful prayers that he could now leave his bed and begin the day.

"The druids watched him. The chief bard in his multi-colored cloak sat by the fire, playing his harp, composing quietly. Soorgeh went about his business of tending the sheep and cattle. Their herds were plentiful and many young were born each day. They waited until he was elbow-deep in blood and afterbirth to draw him away from his old life and into his new.

"They took him to the sacred groves for the testing. All the unseen talents and gifts from the spirits were tried on him to see what was inside his soul. He was deficient in divining--unable to have prophetic dreams. He could not read the entrails of sacrificed calves and chicks. However, language was his passion. Soorgeh could weave a story from nothingness. They pronounced him bardagh--apprentice to Caichir.

"So began his training. Soorgeh was to memorize heroic epics that had been told for countless generations. The genealogy of the tribe was very important. He was groomed to be the heir to all the ancient wisdom. Caichir and the druids taught him how to collect knowledge and create new compositions. Soorgeh knew that this was what the gods deemed to be his life's purpose.

"He saw not the individuals that had been his clan, but they became characters in his songs. Soorgeh stood in the center of everyone's life and observed, remembering every detail, for later, when it was dark. Then he would be outside, looking in, framing words, sounds and melody for the perfect epic.

"When his tribe went to war with a neighboring clan, he went too. Standing in the distance, wearing the protection of his station, knowing that no warrior would break the sacred rule and harm him. In time he found, deep inside himself, an awareness of how tomorrow would evolve by the actions of today. That was when he was given the title of chief bard. The druids held a ceremony in the sacred groves and from there he traveled to a new tribe, cousin to his family, where he started anew."

Methos strummed the harp with happy, joyous notes. It had been a happy time for him. A bard, a musical historian, was a perfect union between physical and spiritual living. Bards were not revered in these modern times. Scribes and scholars were the occupations of choice for such as him. But he remembered. To make sure he never forgot, he wrote them down, on a series of calfskin scrolls, tucked safely into his pack. His fingers left the harp.

"That was beautiful." Cleopatra clapped and stood from her couch. "You are truly gifted. I want you to live here in my palace so I may listen to your songs often."

"I would like to, but I need to study. My current quarters suit me and I would prefer to stay with my fellow students. The occasional visit here, in the evenings or mornings would be pleasant, if you wish." 

Her face took on a pout. Worried, he decided that this was the perfect time to present her with the gift. "I have something for you," he told her. Moving off the couch, he retrieved the bundle he had dropped and unrolled it. The black wool cape was exposed for her to admire. "This is for you, my queen. In the hills surrounding Laodicea, black sheep were plentiful. I--"

"I have heard of that place." She reached down and picked up the cloak. "It is so soft--and warm," she giggled. "Thank you, Metopholus, your gift is accepted and appreciated. Mornings or evenings--I pick mornings. I will send Apollonius for you. After my song, you can study. I know your evenings will be spent in the city at the many taverns and pleasure houses." She nodded to him, briefly closing her eyes in dismissal, and walked through another doorway, out of sight.

"Come, we will go to the library; you have much to read," Apollonius told him curtly. Methos followed obediently. 

They left the queen's rooms and walked through the courtyard. The sun was already sending hot rays to the earth below. 

"You should not have refused her," Apollonius chided him. "You are lucky she didn't have you thrown out of the city. Your temerity is boundless."

"I could not do as she asked and saw no reason to let her believe I could. We came to an ideal solution."

The head librarian grunted. "Be careful. She sets traps within traps. Your luck may not run true the next time."

The two went directly to the Clio room where several scrolls were waiting for Methos on a table. "Read them and then we shall talk," Apollonius instructed.

Methos opened the first and was soon enraptured. Time went by without seeming to. The periphery of his mind registered the movement of other scholars and the addition of new scrolls to his pile while others disappeared. Only an immortal's presence could distract him from this hunger for words.

"Are you not thirsty, Metopholus?" Arqamani asked, pulling Methos from the past.

Methos tried to respond but found his throat to be very dry. "I suppose I am," he croaked. 

"Many have left to get refreshment and a nap. Everyone need some time to recover from the rigors of study."

"You are correct." Methos wiped his hand across his eyes. They were burning from excessive use. In some of the scrolls, the writing was smudged and difficult to read.

The two men left the Museion and went into Alexandria. Methos was longing for a beer when suddenly the presence of another Immortal hit him. He stopped in his tracks and looked around. People were milling around him, talking, laughing, drinking and eating, but he couldn't tell where the signal was coming from.

"Are you unwell?" Arqamani inquired, looking at him concern.

"I am fine." Methos began walking again; taking small steps and looking all around him. A man in a toga appeared directly in front of him. He had the appearance of a rich Roman, but his eyes didn't have the normal supercilious look about them. 

"I am Gaicus, born in Spontum."

"I am Metopholus," Methos relied, not giving a place of birth. "I study at the Museion."

"I am a physician. My duty is with the legions assigned to Cleopatra. I have no quarrel with you."

Methos relaxed. "Nor I with you. Would you like to join us for a drink? I have been studying hard this day and am in need of food and beer."

Gaicus glanced briefly at Arqamani. "Another time, brother. A centurion is injured and requires my services." He paused. "I will find you later."

"Till then." Methos doubted that Gaicus would have any trouble locating him. So far, this Roman doctor was the first Immortal he had run into.

"That was a most interesting encounter." Arqamani looked at him sideways, but kept walking. "You did not know him and both were uneasy in the other's company. Have you heard ill of this man?"

"I have neither met nor heard of this doctor before this day. There is Martius," Methos exclaimed, hoping to guide Arqamani's attention away from Gaicus. "Martius, come join us for some bread and cheese."

Over lunch the three friends talked of their work and people they knew. Methos had been successful in redirecting attention away from the immortal confrontation. After the meal, they walked slowly back to the Museion. Troops of soldiers, each led by a centurion, marched along the street. Locals gave them a wide berth. Methos observed their progress closely. He could see and feel his new acquaintance, who nodded to him as they all marched past toward the palace hospital. One officer was being carried on a litter, his bandages crimson, his body immobile. 

After the parade of soldiers had passed, Methos went back into the sanctuary of scrolls to further his education. He was given scrolls and told to read and learn them. His nights were spent with his new friends and his days were taken up with his studies. One morning Apollonius called him into the Melpomene room. He was to be tested. After Methos had proved himself proficient, he was made an independent scholar and left to his own devices. This in turn enabled him to visit any room without restrictions or guard. The only qualification on his time was that he write a scroll on the eye salve and one other on a subject of his choice. Methos had no problems with the assignment.

One of the benefits of life in the Museion was the constant stream of lectures and demonstrations. One morning Labrienus and Nebamun told him that a famous physician was there for a lecture. They entered the large hall where many students were seated on the floor and couches for available for the nobility. They found space and were waiting patiently for the speaker when Cleopatra walked in with another man. 

"That's Olympos, one of her trusted advisors," Nebamun informed Methos.

Methos looked hard at the man before the tell-tale feeling of an immortal assailed his senses. Gaicus walked in and went to the front of the room. He was the lecturer. The two Immortals looked at each other, and then Methos felt as if he was forgotten as the doctor began his talk on the use of a poultice of dried figs on chest congestion and coughs. 

After the conclusion, Gaicus stepped down from the podium. The eager students congregated around the speaker. 

Methos stared at the other immortal, but spoke to his friends. "I am going to wait and speak with him. I will join you later." It was rather a dismissal and he regretted his lack of tact. No doubt Labrienus would capitalize on it.

Labrienus smiled without humor. "Arqamani told me of your interest in the Roman doctor. Be careful you don't get recruited into joining the royal physicians. We would be sorry to lose you."

The irony was not lost on the others who smiled at the choice of words. "I only wish for a conversation with Gaicus, nothing more." Methos saw the expert way in which the immortal physician dispatched his followers and admired his skill.

"Metopholus, I am ready. There is a tavern by the harbor that sells fish cooked with lemon and honey and it fairly melts in your mouth. Shall we go?"

The two Immortals walked out of the Museion and headed for the waterfront. Ships of all sizes were berthed, while sailors worked to ready them for future voyages. Several taverns decorated the coastline beckoning the customer with scents to make the mouth water. Methos realized that he was very hungry. One particular tavern caught Gaicus's eye and he made his way to it. Methos could not see anything that distinguished it from the multitude.

"Come, I know the proprietor well. He will serve us the best fillets."

After the food and jars of beer were set before them, Gaicus began his in-depth interview. "How long have you been in Alexandria?"

"A month," Methos responded between mouthfuls. "I had been studying in Laodicea. I had stayed there many moons and wanted to see more of the world. In addition to the travel, I wished to learn more. Egypt's Museion equals its lighthouse in drawing people to its shores." He took another bite of his food. "How about you? How long have you been in Rome's service?"

"My whole life."

A young one, Methos thought. 

"I was born in Spontum one hundred and fifty years ago. I was supposed to become a priest, but found an interest in medicine that rivaled anything else. I found a sponsor and went to many fine schools. Caesar appointed me to the post of legion physician here in Alexandria five years ago. He didn't trust the Egyptians to treat us."

"He expected that most wanted the Romans dead and if they couldn't actively seek it, having their doctors let patients die was the next best thing. I understand." 

"When Caesar was murdered, I was never recalled, so I stayed."

Methos could tell the man was lonely. He volunteered too much about himself. "I also have found medicine to be a calling. From the time I learned to write and read, I wanted to learn about the body's humors and how we could control them."

"Control their humors or their bodies?" Gaicus asked, showing a shrewdness Methos hadn't expected.

"Their humors, of course. I don't believe that a curse can cause illness. Something else does. But other ailments are just as interesting and I wish to learn of those, too." Methos decided to change the subject. "Was your first teacher a doctor?"

"No. Cuspianus was a centurion in Constantine's legions."

"Constantine?"

"Marcus Constantine, one of the greatest generals Rome has ever seen and one of us. He's more than four hundred years old."

"And loves Rome with a passion that you emulate." Methos had heard this all before. The last thing he needed was to meet an immortal great general. He'd remember that name and stay as far away as possible. "Is this Constantine in Alexandria?"

"No. But I'm sure he'll come."

Methos wondered for whom this Constantine gave his loyalty to, Antony or Octavian. It could mean the difference of who won the power struggle for the leadership of Rome. In either case, he wanted to be well away from here before the battle broke out. "How many of us have you met in this great city? I admit that you are my first."

"Cleopatra has a handmaiden, Nefertiri. She's totally devoted to her mistress. Many Romans have tried to bed her, but she resists them all. I don't know her story, but I believe she's old, maybe over a thousand years."

"Any others?" Methos didn't believe there could be many.

"A Jew. Cleopatra has a few managing her finances. Epaphroditus is her chief advisor and he has the power to appoint those to work under him. One such is the immortal Hezekiah. He is a quiet, mousy man."

Methos ordered another jar of beer. "This brew is very good. I need to come here more often."

"I would enjoy your company. There are few that I can talk to with openly."

"Don't you feel that I might challenge you?" Methos asked curiously. Never had he met such trust from another Immortal.

"No, you would never. We are both scholars. Who can remember history as it happens better than us? Scrolls burn, mortals die, knowledge can be lost. But our minds," he said, burning with a fervor that was almost painful to see, "they never forget. We keep our records and so nothing is truly lost. As a fellow scholar you would never destroy what I have accumulated."

Methos hadn't thought about it that way. He also didn't think the man would last long. Not many immortals would let him keep his head for what was contained inside. Gaicus was lucky, this time, in his choice of friends. Methos had no wish to take the other's head. "I wish you good fortune with that philosophy. I myself have never encountered another Immortal who held those views. I do assure you that your head is safe with me."

Gaicus nodded. "As yours is with me. A pact, then, of mutual benefit." He lifted his jar up and drank fully. 

Methos did likewise. "Is all your time spend bandaging up fallen soldiers?"

"Yes. I also make potions. I have several women who gather herbs and tend my garden. Olympos has offered me the use of his personal garden and plants growing within. I am much sought after for my remedies."

"I have not met Olympos. He is the queen's personal physician?"

"He is, and also a childhood friend. There are few that she trusts implicitly, but he is one."

"Apollonius?"

"He belongs to Egypt. His loyalty is to the library and Museion. If she is willing to safeguard that, then she has his complete loyalty."

Methos nodded. This Roman was an excellent source of information. It would be in his best interest to stay close to this man. 

When their meal was finished, Gaicus bid farewell and returned to his duty. Methos went back to the Museion for more reading.

Later that evening, Methos found himself drinking with his friends when a large party of Romans burst into the establishment. Labrienus leaned over, "It's Antony with some of his officers," he whispered.

Methos studied them carefully. One was not an officer, for the uniform hid curves that could not belong to any man. The smallish officer turned and for an instant, met his eyes. The woman was Cleopatra. Methos was horrified. This woman was the queen of Egypt, yet she drank with the common foot soldiers from her lover's army in a tavern who catered to the baseborn. Her only security rested with her anonymity and the strength of a handful of men who teetered on drunkenness. 

"Scholars from the Museion?" Antony's loud voice carried over. "Tavern keeper, send an amphora of Rhodian wine to that table." He pointed to them. To Methos' surprise, Antony came over to deliver the wine in person and then sat down with them, next to Methos. "Drink, fellow Romans." Then he leaned close to Methos and whispered in his ear. "My lady queen tells me that you are the bard who has been entertaining her with tales of Gaul's gallant past."

Methos wanted to gag at the smell of alcohol on Antony's breath. "I am."

"Have you stories about battles between the Celts and the Romans?"

"No. All my tales take place before Caesar came. They are the histories of the people--"

"The people--not your people?" Antony asked, with a glitter in his eye.

Methos groaned inwardly at his slip. "I was young when taken. I consider myself Roman, my lord. I remember what I was taught as a boy, but it is more of a dream than something that happened to me."

Antony seemed satisfied with the answer. "Well, good bard. I would like to hear your tender verses one of these mornings. Enjoy your drink." Then he went back to his party.

"What was that all about?" Martius asked, still watching Antony as he grabbed another jar and drank fully.

"The queen had told him of my ballads, and he expressed a wish to hear them, too."

His friends were satisfied with his answer and went back to drinking and staring at the women flocking around looking for a man for the night.

Methos sat back in his chair and let it all go on around him. His attention was fixed on the royal party. There was a frenetic gaiety to them that spoke of suppressed anxiety, rather than pure enjoyment. Even the queen didn't look happy, but looked determined to have a good time.

Arqamani rose and began talking to a girl. She was wearing thin, cheap silks that flowed seductively around her. Labrienus shook his head. "Despite his quiet manner, he seldom spends a night alone. How about you, Metopholus? I've seen some of the handmaidens look at you. Have you found one to your liking?"

"I have spent so much time studying that I haven't noticed any particular handmaiden. Point them out to me next time-- the ones who look interested."

Martius laughed. "They are all interested. You are a teller of romantic tales. Their hearts go pitter-patter when you walk into a room."

Methos was intrigued. "I'll pay closer attention tomorrow morning."

Yet when the page knocked on his door the next morning, Methos woke bleary-eyed and didn't feel like paying attention to anything but his bed. His roommates didn't even stir, now used to the interruption. He wasn't sure how Cleopatra was able to stay out late drinking and still be awake so early. Maybe she never went to sleep. 

He was led to a different room this time. Totally alert, he tried to locate any sign of another immortal presence. Did he want to meet this Nefertiri? Inside, Antony and Cleopatra were lounging together on a couch. A cushion was strategically placed for him to sit. The harp was waiting. Apollonius didn't trust him to take the harp back to his apartments; it had to stay in the royal chambers.

"Good morning, my good Metopholus. I am in need of a love ballad this morning," Cleopatra informed him and then stretched, revealing the outline of a breast and her slender neck. Antony's arm was possessively placed along her hip, stroking up and down.

"I know a few." Methos tuned the stringed instrument and began a song. One part of his mind was remembering the verses, but another was perusing the other women in the room. It was true; many were looking at him with longing, or lust, and he knew he could have the pick of them. His voice became husky as he calculated a time when he could bed one of them. 

One in particular caught his attention. Her eyes were downcast as she attended her mistress, handing her some wine or a basket of fruit. The maiden acted shy and hid most of her face with her long downy hair; the color of sand, not the typical black. He couldn't see her eyes, but he imagined that they were blue. As he became physically aroused, his music also contained the same emotions and they affected everyone in the room.

"I think that will be all, Metopholus," Antony commanded. "You may leave us."

Still disoriented, he stood and deposited the harp on the cedar table. A dark woman with tan silks and gold necklaces wrapped herself around his arm and led him out the door. Methos turned and stared at the shy woman, but her eyes wouldn't look up at him.

"You want Phidias?" his escort asked. "I'll have her brought for you. The queen said you could have any woman you wanted."

Methos couldn't see any signs of ill humor that he hadn't chosen the woman draped on his arm, but women were a strange breed. They could hide anything from men. He was left standing in the hall with a page nearby. Soon the dark woman came out with Phidias--his light colored temptress. She looked up at him, and her shy eyes were indeed blue. She trembled as he took her arm. 

The page led him to a vacant room within the palace. It had wall hangings that told stories, but Methos was not interested in history. The room had two couches with a table between them. On it was a pitcher of fruit juice. He poured a cup for himself and one for the lady. His throat was parched, whether from his singing or longing, he didn't know or care. She drank her juice daintily, sneaking peeks at him over her glass. She didn't look reluctant, only shy. He took the glass out of her hand and sat it on the table. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist and brought her down on top of him as he sank down onto a couch. Their lips were joined before his back hit the cushions.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Methos was several hours late to the Museion. Apollonius gave him a hard stare as he walked to one of the holding rooms to remove a couple of astronomy scrolls. The latest talk was centered on an upcoming solar eclipse, and Methos wanted to learn how they had forecasted the event. 

"You look relaxed," Arqamini commented as he sat down beside Methos at the table.

"What?" Methos had been absorbed in the material.

"You're sprawled over two chairs. Did one of the handmaidens capture your attention?"

Methos smiled in pure enjoyment. "We were both fully captured."

"Which one? Kasu? Archeli? That one likes to try out the new soldiers. You may be too intelligent for her. What about Hirtaus?"

"Quit naming them all. Her name was Phidias."

"I don't know that one."

"Good. Keep it that way."

"Do you have an assignation for later today?" Arqamani was overzealous in his prying.

"We will meet for dinner. That is after the queen has eaten."

"Have fun, my friend. Nothing is closer to the afterlife than lying between a woman's legs."

Methos had to agree.

Methos and his new woman spent the evening together alone and none else sought his company. He returned to his room late, but found all three of his friends still awake. He dreaded the cross-examination, but he feared in vain. They were busy discussing the fact that Antony was to leave the next day. Roman matters had come to a head. 

"Antony's wife, Fulvia, has declared war on Octavian," Labrienus explained. "She has raised legions against him and has sided with Sextus. Even Antony's mother has sided against Octavian."

"Antony has much work ahead of him." Martius seemed eager to imagine Antony in difficulties.

"You do not like Antony?" Methos asked.

"He's spineless. No doubt he has charisma; his soldiers follow him willingly enough. But he is easily swayed by anyone with a forceful manner. When he is in Rome, he does what Octavian wants. Here, he obeys the queen."

Methos cared little for Antony's strengths or faults. Although, the longer Cleopatra's Roman remained a force to be recognized by Octavian, the longer Methos could stay at the Museion.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Weeks followed in their monotony. Cleopatra formed a new society in the palace. Olympos was instructed to bring the brightest minds from the Museion to entertain and educate herself and the young heir, Caesarion. The solar eclipse was on everyone's mind and was the prime topic of investigation. Astronomers and mathematicians frequented the meeting to give lectures. 

One such discussion centered around the calculations of the size of the earth itself. One noted astronomer, Diodorus, stated that by measuring the curvature of the earth and then figuring out how far the moon was, they could calculate earth's size. Little Caesarion calmly asked how were they going to measure the moon's distance from the earth. Cleopatra was amused at her son's implicit understanding. Diodorus was not.

The room they met in was more like a hall with large windows facing the harbor, which allowed cool breezes to enter. The other walls were painted with landscapes that also reflected the harbor and water, so that it seemed that they were outside and not in at all. Methos always made himself available for these meetings. No one was treated harshly and everyone exchanged ideas with exuberance. Cleopatra brought a few handmaidens and let Phidias sit with Methos. There were even times when the queen asked Methos for some songs. He complied, but would have rather discussed medicine or astronomy.

Soon the time for the solar eclipse arrived. The palace contingent was present on the highest terrace, which gave them the widest view of the horizon. The sun was hot and several canopies were set up for the women's comfort. Drinks were brought out continually and honeycakes were eaten to help them feel less bloated. When the calculated moment arrived, everyone held their breath. Phidias clutched Methos arm and hid her face in his sleeve. He gently caressed her head and watched as the light weakened. At first it was so faint as to be almost missed, except for the sight of the moon as it crept across the sun. 

As the moon took up more space in front of the sun, the quality of the light was unlike anything anyone had seen before. Except Methos. He had seen several. Fifty years previously there had been an eclipse, and before that he remembered one where a whole village had committed mass suicide because they thought their gods had told them to do so. Now the magic was reduced to simple mathematical calculations. The mysticism had been vanquished by modern science. Methos found observing reactions more interesting than the actual phenomenon.

After the moon left the sun's face, the people disbanded. Phidias led him back to their little unused room in the palace, explaining that she didn't have much time. She had her hands inside his tunic before he had closed the door fully. Taking the initiative, she seduced him, fully. Her hands roamed over his body, stroking, pinching--teasing. He drowned in the feelings she inspired in him. As he climaxed, he realized that she was shaking.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No. It felt wonderful. I feel wonderful to be alive."

Now, he understood. She had been afraid. After great fear the need to feel alive is paramount, and sex was often used for that purpose. As he regained his breath, he covered her over and kissed her gently on the lips.

"Go to your queen. I will see you tonight."

She scampered off. He adjusted his tunic and shortly followed. There were several hours left for study. The hall was mostly deserted; an odd guard patrolling was all he saw, until he felt the tingle of another immortal.

She was gliding down the hall carrying a platter of fruit and breads. "Nefertiri," he said aloud. It had to be her. With condescending eyes she looked him up and down and then passed, not caring who he was. She was alone, no guards or other ladies. "I am Metopholus."

"I know," she answered without turning and hurried on her way. She held her head with the confidence of her station and probably the ability to defend it. 

Did he want to pursue her? This short encounter revealed nothing except self-assuredness. Was she a threat to him? He watched as she rounded the corner and disappeared. He would return to the Museion and study. There was enough time to investigate her--later.

The day was hot and he was soaked in sweat by the time he entered the shaded reading rooms. Slaves were scattered among the tables, holding gigantic ostrich feathers, fanning the scholars as they worked. Methos hardly glanced at them before leaving them behind and searching for Nebamun. 

Methos came up upon him inside the Polyhymnia reading room. Nebamun was seated at a table with several scrolls in front of him, copying one onto fresh parchment.

"Metopholus, were you looking for me?"

"Yes, I was. I have been concentrating on medicine and science. I have realized that many of the works are in rough condition. Are these the only drafts in the world, or are others scattered in Athens and Rome?"

"That is a good question. We pride ourselves on the fact that we have the originals of many great works. There are numerous copies in the world, but we try and keep the ones truly written by the authors in this great library."

"Which are the ones that have no copies in the world? Aren't you afraid that they could become lost?"

"Why do you ask, Metopholus?" His eyebrows furrowed in suspicion.

"I was thinking that I could spend part of my day making copies." Methos looked at what Nebamun was writing, "As what you seem to be doing now. I fear the loss of great masterpieces."

"I could use the help. Scholars from around the world have requested copies, and it has been my life's work to fill these orders. Olympos is to leave for Rome in a short while, and I have been commissioned to copy several medical treatises for him to take. You can help me with those. After his departure we will tackle other subjects. Does this please you?"

Methos smiled. It pleased him well. "I will do as you recommend." As he started his new work, he vowed to make copies of particular scrolls for his own personal collection. When Octavian made war on Alexandria, Methos would be ready. All the most precious of manuscripts would be hidden deep in the desert where the Roman war parties wouldn't be able to pillage and burn them. The Museion had been almost destroyed once before; at least now, many of the greatest works would be preserved outside of the city.

Part 2 c.31 BCE

News of Antony's defeat in Actium spread quickly in Alexandria. The only thing that was more newsworthy was how the famous general dealt with the loss--he hid. Methos could see a trend in Antony's actions. With victory, he journeyed to Rome to proclaim the news, but in defeat, he buried his head figuratively in Cleopatra's bosom. Methos shook his head in disgust. 

The only important fact to come from this intelligence was that his time at the famous library was now drawing to a close. Lately, he had been working at copying the scrolls for a new purpose. Antony gave Cleopatra an exorbitant gift of the library in Pergamon. All their scrolls were sent to Alexandria. Feeling pleased, yet guilty, she asked Nebamun to make copies of their precious scrolls to send back. Methos was recruited to this purpose. This way both libraries benefited.

Methos had just finished his labor on a particular document, when he felt the immortal sensation begin to creep up his back. He jumped to his feet in preparation for the invader, but relaxed when Gaicus walked in.

"My friend, Metopholus, I have come to you with tidings of an envoy from Imperator Caesar. He has sent a much decorated general who goes by the name of Marcus Constantine to discuss terms with Antony." The Immortal doctor paused. "I believe I've mentioned him before."

"I remember," Methos responded.

"You must be careful around him. He needs no authorization to kill and has been instructed to do as he must."

"Are you his friend?" Methos asked.

"He knows me and my service to the armies and will not make trouble. You are an unknown. I don't know how he will act."

"I thank you for the warning and will make myself scarce in the palace. The queen must have more important things to do than listen to Gaelic tales."

Gaicus bowed and left. Methos was apprehensive. The arrival of this new immortal could mean trouble. He had no wish to battle a trusted Roman general. He would lose either way. If he killed this Roman, all of Octavian's armies would hunt him down. The Roman killing him was unthinkable. Therefore, a meeting between them was something to avoid at all costs. With the weight of the new problem on his shoulders, he left the reading room and hastened to the steps in front of the Temple of Isis where he was to meet Phidias. 

She was full of excitement when they greeted each other. "Nefertiri has met her match today."

Methos stopped walking. He had forgotten about the woman immortal. "What has happened?"

"Octavian has sent a general to talk with Antony, but this Roman is more interested in *her*. We all find this amusing, because if there is one thing Nefertiri hates, it is Rome. The one thing she loves above everything, is Egypt. The queen has ordered her to be friendly," she said, giggling.

Methos could see the humor in the cold-faced Nefetiri trying to be nice. "What does Antony say about this?" he asked as he led her away from the temple and down the street.

"He is still in Paraetonium, in his self-imposed exile. General Constantine has yet to see him, although he sees much of the queen and her maidens."

Methos inwardly laughed in relief. This new immortal was too infatuated with Egypt and her people to be an immediate threat to him. Let the ladies keep Constantine enthralled, so he could continue his work. "I am in the mood for gilded prawns and squill patties with Falerian wine."

"I would be happy with roasted ox and honey cakes dripping with Hymettan honey--"

"Why not baked eel and Zeus-acorns," he added, good-humoredly, trying to outdo her in suggesting exotic dishes.

"Are we celebrating, my lord?" Phidias asked, with darkened upturned eyes and a beguiling smile that made Methos forget all about food. "Are you happy that this new man has come to Alexandria?"

"I care nothing for the general. It is his interest in the handmaiden that amuses me. Cleopatra has expert judgment in selecting those to serve her," Methos said, meaning it as both an observation and as a compliment to his companion. He planted a kiss on Phidias's lips and continued on his way to the Thyrsus tavern.

As they walked through the city, on every street talk was rampant about Antony's exile. Some suggested that the queen grew tired of him and kept him under lock and key. Others spread rumors that he had turned coward at Actium and retreated to Egypt to kill himself. None had seen him. One Egyptian farrier proclaimed that Antony was already dead. The Romans were silent, waiting to see what developed. Methos was curious to see how they would act. Both lowly soldiers and high-ranking centurions had taken Egyptian wives and had settled into the culture. They would not be happy to be recalled home. Mixed marriages were not recognized in Rome. The half-breed children would be unable to inherit the family holdings.

The tavern was filled to almost bursting, Methos noticed as he entered. They were able to find a place near one of the corners and beer was brought over to them immediately. Several other students from the Museion were there, but he only waved and concentrated on his female companion.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

The next day, Methos was late getting up. His friends had already left. Instead of anger at being forgotten, he was relieved. It gave him a chance to practice with his sword. Taking off his tunic--attired in only his bare skin--Methos began stretching out his arms, rotating one way and then another. He bent and touched his toes, feeling the muscles in the back of his legs pull taut. Straightening, he picked up his sword and slashed downward a few times, then began a dance--using all four limbs and his weapon--designed to make him limber. Bathed in sweat, an hour later, he washed himself and dressed for study. His sword hidden once more in the folds of his tunic, he left the room.

The Museion was crowded. The marble tables were filled with unrolled scrolls and people reading them. Methos wandered from the main room and headed through the familiar archways to the Clio reading room. Nebamun was seated, copying from one scroll onto a blank piece of parchment.

"Metopholus." The Egyptian eyed him with disdain. "Would you copy the Maxims of Ptahhotpe. The queen wants it for Caesarian."

Methos dutifully sat and began the arduous business of copying the boring primer. What did the young prince need with it? It was something he must have studied years ago. Maybe Cleopatra needed to make a point? With precise strokes, Methos wrote, "Teach him what has been said in the past, then he will set a good example to the children of the magistrates, and judgement and all exactitude shall enter into him." What king ever listened to good advice? When Caesarian ascended the throne of Egypt, his entire being would be obsessed with Rome--if he lived that long. Methos believed that Octavian would never allow it.

As he was finishing the last line, an Immortal presence overwhelmed him. Stilling his involuntary panic, he rose from his seat and strode to the door. A Roman general was walking into the main reading room, followed by two Macedonian House Guards, acting as guides. The immortal general looked up, but already Methos had fled the doorway.

"Excuse me, Nebamun, I need some refreshment. I shall return shortly." He bowed his head and slid out the side door into a storage room. Without sparing a glance at the labeled scrolls, he strode through the room and out the opposite door from which he had entered. He found himself in a maze of one room leading off of another, all lined with scroll sockets. Then he entered one without another door--a dead end. To his great surprise he found that it was almost devoid of scrolls. The suddenness of the emptied room made him stop short. The immortal presence had stopped, so the escape imperative had dwindled and curiosity overtook him. 

The shelves were lined in dust. Even the floor showed the imprints from his sandals. All three walls of the small room were lined with shelves, but the sockets were empty except for a single shelf on the left side. He lifted out a scroll and unrolled it. The skin was darkened and brittle, showing it to be a very old document. Parts broke off and fell into the dust. The script was Hebrew, possibly more than 500 years old. Methos felt himself sink to the floor and ignored the dust as it rose up around him. His mind was already buried deep in the story.

When he came to the end, he knew he wanted to possess the scroll. It described an ancient magic that enabled mortals to live longer than their paltry scores of years. It allowed them to become as old as Noah and Methuselah had been--as old as an Immortal. Methos carefully set the scroll down and picked up another. This too described a history: the sons of Cain and how that line died out because they lost the favor of God. The next talked of the great flood, which purged the earth of impurities and allowed only Seth's descendants to survive and repopulate the land.

Every single scroll contained some reference to the beginning of time--and implied that the Jewish Torah spoke the truth about creation. No wonder the Egyptians had buried the history. It was heresy to deny Osirus and Isis and the pantheon of gods that the Egyptians worshipped. Methos carefully re-rolled the precious documents and began to formulate a plan to copy them for his own reference. If the Romans ever discovered this treasure they would quickly burn it. He had to keep the works safe.

The hallways were still empty as Methos made his way back to the reading room. 

"Were you caught in a sandstorm?" Nebamun asked, eyebrow raised and a grimace of distaste upon his face.

Methos looked at his dust-coated tunic. He was filthy. "A formation of the Roman cavalry rode past me on the road," Methos lied. "I was in such a hurry to return that I didn't notice that--"

"It doesn't matter. Have you finished the Maxims?"

"I have." Methos had left the parchment drying when he had made his escape. "Here," and he handed it to Nebamun. 

"General Constantine was here a short time ago. The queen requires your presence tonight. She wants you to entertain the newly arrived Roman officer and her ladies with your 'exquisite Celtic epics'." Nebamun did little to hide his scorn.

Methos was frantically thinking of a way to get out of the royal request. 

"He has heard much of your prowess with the harp," the Egyptian continued, not perceiving Methos's discomfort. "Do you know any that describe Rome's accomplishments in battle?"

"None to her advantage," Methos replied, still scrambling for a legitimate excuse.

"I'm sure the queen wants you to please as well as enthrall her guests, so you better think of something."

Methos nodded. "May I be excused? I had better ponder this so her majesty won't be disappointed."

Nebamun gave his permission and Methos walked out of the room. Hidden alongside his sword was one of the ancient scrolls that he had "borrowed" from the deserted storage room. He would copy the scroll in the privacy of his room as well as think of an epic worthy of Cleopatra and the immortal. What would be even better was to think up a way to skip the evening's entertainment.

Methos walked through Alexandria, conscious of the ancient scroll hidden on his person. He walked down the marble steps, out onto the city street. Tied to his waist, a sack dangled, containing his brushes and ink--the personal property of any scribe. However, he didn't own any parchment. The skins were for his personal journal. His first order of business was to purchase something to write on.

Venders hawked their wares on the street. What he wanted was a little shop near the Temple of Serapis. Arqamani had recommended the place as having the best quality in Alexandria. Methos was able to find the store without difficulty. People of different ethnic origins loitered outside the door. 

"Excuse me. Is Aton inside?" Methos inquired of the Arab, who stood erect with his white voluminous robes billowing around him. For a second, the immortal admired the idea of such a large area in which to hide weapons and personal items close to his body. Maybe in his next incarnation, he would adopt the desert-style dress.

"He is. The slave, Harrab, is inside negotiating for a bundle of scrolls for his master. You must wait your turn."

Methos spent his time watching the many citizens of Egypt along the road. Women carried food back to their homes to cook the evening meal. The temple itself was on the only naturally occurring hill. The grounds sloped upward from where he stood. Priests wearing scarlet robes went dutifully about their business of collecting tributes and offerings for their god. The statue of Serapis was imposing, casting a long shadow where many of the faithful knelt and prayed.

Someone tapped on his back. "It is your turn," a young boy told him. Methos followed him into a small mud shack, where an old man had different grades of flat sheets on a table. 

"No barter, only coin," the old man told him in broken Greek.

"I have money," Methos replied in faultless Egyptian. 

The man beamed, showing a missing tooth. "I have more--better," he said and brought out another pile of scrolls. "You work for the queen?"

"No, at the library," Methos told him absently as he perused the different stacks.

"The Museion." He nodded knowledgeably. "My nephew is there."

"I'll take this bunch." Methos pulled out his moneybag and counted out several denarii.

Again the man beamed. "Come again."

Methos left the little hut and walked up the steep hill to the temple. Priests glanced his way, but the immortal ignored them. At the top, he looked out over the horizon and saw the Lake Mareotis. He would work there, until dark. 

The walk was long in the hot sun, but worth it as he sat by the bank and took out the scroll he had absconded with. Using rocks to weigh the parchment down, he began the laborious process of copying it. The ancient words danced across his mind as he wrote. An unbelievable story began to unfold. Perspiration dripped down his face, along with tears from burning eyes as he squinted in the darkness trying to get one last word down. Gently blowing on what he had just finished, he saw the stars come out. He was in total darkness, but he didn't dare leave until the parchment had dried enough not to smear as he rolled it up. While waiting, he cleaned up his brushes in the lake and placed them and the jar of ink back in his bag.

As he walked back into the city and to the palace grounds, he began to think once more of Cleopatra's request that he entertain her this evening. Without a better plan, he decided to go and let the dice fall as the gods willed. 

"Metopholus, where have you been?" Labrienus demanded. 

"I have been-- What has happened?"

"Queen Cleopatra has sent for you. When I could not tell her where you were, she sent out some of her Household Guards to look for you. She fears that you've been eaten by a crocodile or killed by ruffians. You better think up something to excuse your absence."

"What are your plans this evening? Are you to accompany me?"

"No, I am leaving now to join Martius. I stayed only to give you the queen's message."

Labrienus left in a huff, irritated to have been put in such a position, but also relieved that nothing untoward had happened. Methos smiled as his friend's gruff manner. Then he took out the scroll and its copy and placed them with his spare clothes. He would return the original tomorrow. He would need a place to hide his growing collection. A large empty wine cask would work, but where would he put it away from prying eyes?

As soon as he left the student's quarters and entered the palace proper, a Macedonian Household Guard accosted him and escorted him at sword point to the inner sanctum. 

Cleopatra was lounging on her couch, with her ladies in attendance, but no Roman soldiers. Methos felt his shoulders relax. There was the presence of an immortal, but he found it to belong to the handmaiden, Nefertiri, whom he had previously met. He carefully avoided her eyes.

"My Queen." He bowed deep as he entered.

"Enter, Bard. Our other guests have left, but we still desire for you to play for us."

Methos complied, relieved that only the ladies were present.

The next day, Methos was able to return the ancient scroll and gather two other ones. He worked diligently for Nebamun until the midday heat became unbearable, and he was able to escape undetected to work in the abandoned room. Since there were so many scroll sockets, he decided to leave his copies there until he found a suitable hiding place. 

As he ate, an idea formed in his mind. He would bury the scrolls in the desert and retrieve them when the danger was over. In fact, he thought as he munched on the remaining slice of bread, he had the perfect spot. There was a place he used to live in, many centuries ago, which was now buried in the sand. No one knew about it, no one would even think to look for it. The giant sphinx guarded the area and only the weary traveler went near the location. Methos smiled as he took the last sip of his Pramnian wine.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

For the next several months, Methos divided him time between his work for Nebamun and copying the ancient texts. He made several trips out to the desert: the first was to bury a large empty wine cask, and the others were to insert his copied scrolls. The cask would be able to fit at least thirty, he calculated. It might even be a safe place to store his journals. Octavian was sure to arrive at any time. Cleopatra was defeated. Antony hid in shame. Egypt was ripe for Roman domination.

Methos woke one morning to find the entire palace in an uproar. Antony had returned from Paraetonium. The Household Guards were swarming all over the palace grounds. Cleopatra had begun removing personal items from her private rooms to the mausoleum she was building to house the most precious of Egypt's treasures along with her person--dead or alive. She planned to have it all locked away from Octavian's greedy hands when he came to claim his booty. Methos admired her strategy. It took cunning and a brilliant mind to come up with such a plan. Her best engineers had built her a tomb on the eastern side of the Temple of Isis. It had an extra room where she stored the valuables. It had passageways connecting the temple with the tomb. Her plan was to seal the outer door when Octavian came and bargain with him. If he didn't agree to her demands she would burn herself and all the treasure with her, thus robbing Octavian and Rome. Methos planned to be gone long before the final scene played itself out.

As he stood observing the slaves and guards carting Cleopatra's valuables through the palace grounds to the temple, the presence of another immortal slammed into him. He had been woolgathering instead of staying alert. He turned abruptly, his hand on the hilt of his hidden sword. 

Nefertiri walked slowly down the path, alone. She glanced at him, distrust evident in her eyes.

"Why do you hate me?" Methos asked curiously. "I have never challenged you or made any move for your head."

"You are a Roman," she spit out.

"I am not. I haven't visited there for centuries."

Her eyes flashed. She did not say anymore, but moved on. 

Methos waited until he recognized one of the guards. "Is Antony back to the palace?"

"He does not stay. The queen has told us that he is to live at a small house on the west side of the harbor."

Methos thanked the guard and decided that he would be better off working at the Museion. Walking quickly away from the bustle, he made his way up the marble steps into the learning sanctuary. He loved the smell of scrolls as they unfurled their knowledge to the reader. A sense of great loss assailed him as he walked the corridors and realized that the library might soon be gone. 

Methos entered the Polyhymnia reading room, where Nebamun was supposed to meet him, but the Egyptian wasn't there. The room was empty. Methos turned around and went to look for Apollonius, but the head librarian found him first.

"Metopholus. I have just come from the queen. Nebamun is working with her today, so he doesn't require your services." Apollonius smiled. "He is pleased with the work you have done for him. I saw the scroll you wrote on the eye salve. It was done in great detail so even the beginner physician could make and use the medicine. Thank you for your contribution."

"You're welcome. I am happy that my work meets your expectations."

"Go now and read. I know you have desired time to cater to your whimsy. You are free to work on your private education."

Methos felt his heart race at the news. "Thank you. I will use the time wisely."

Apollonius nodded and gave him a conspiratorial smile and went back to his duties. Methos went directly to the back room with the ancient scrolls. In the room just adjacent to it, he found a table and dragged it into the small room. He pulled out one of his new, unused pieces of parchment and laid it on the table. Next he took out several of the scrolls from the top shelf, previously sorted, so that he could peruse them together. Each hinted at an ancient magic, and he was hoping that he could find the common thread and elucidate the nature of that magic.

Spacing the five different scrolls on the floor, he looked from one to another. Each scroll told the life story of a different man. What excited Methos' interest was that these men seemed to have lived beyond what was normal for mortals. Were these the first immortals to walk the earth? Yet in each case, the men were described to have grown old before they died. There was no mention of sword fights. The only thing they had in common was the white ball of light that they referred to as the Spirit of God. Sometimes that ball broke into shards of crystal, which family members used to adorn themselves. In other instances the ball disappeared into another man. Methos was perplexed on how this could happen. Was it similar to a quickening?

He read further. The man Enoch stated that only if the group of shards was assembled correctly would the physical turn into the Spirit and be able to penetrate a man's skin. Nowhere could Methos find a reason for why the ball sometimes went directly into a man and in others, it broke into pieces. As Methos read bits from one scroll and then another, he noticed that having the ability to produce this Spirit of God coincided with the man's death. As he died, the light burst from his chest and directed itself into another or broke into pieces to be assembled later. When a man accepted this Spirit of God, he subsequently lived to a very old age. Carefully, Methos read each text and tried to determine how many of the balls of light existed.

Adam had the first one. When he died at the age of 930 years, the light entered a man named Lamech, who subsequently lived 777 years. Seth had one and he lived to be 912 years. It appeared that his broke into the shards of crystal that were reconstituted later to enter Noah. Others, such as Mahalaleel, Jared and Enoch were described to have lived long lives, but where their spirits went to was not mentioned. 

Methusaleh's crystal, on the other hand, had been extensively written about. It had been saved and taken on the ark by Noah as a memorial to his grandfather. It was not given to another man. After the great flood, the lengths of the lives of men were lessened. Instead of seven to nine hundred years, they only lived two to four hundred years and the total years kept decreasing. Did the power of God's Spirit decrease with use?

Methos thought back. Did he remember the flood? He had very faint memories of stories about the water that washed the world, but he didn't remember the flood itself. In the last section of the scroll, he described exactly how Methusaleh's crystal should be assembled. Using his brush and ink, he was able to diagram the directions exactly as Enoch had previously instructed and Manetho paraphrased. It was a rough drawing and Methos intended to rework it later, when he had more time and colors. He hoped it was accurate in case he ever found the crystal himself.

When he had finished, he let the parchment dry. The texts he had been reading from had already been copied and taken to the safe container in the desert. Methos looked at the rest of the scrolls in the room. He believed that all the rest had been dutifully done also. He was done here. If time permitted, he would explore more of the library and see if he could find more of these hidden alcoves.

Capping his ink and putting it and the brush away, he also rolled the now-dry scroll and hid it in the folds of his tunic. He had no idea of the time, and knew he had better return before someone noticed that he was missing. Stepping from the room, he made his way to the main part of the Museion. His thoughts were still churning with the discoveries he had made. What did it all mean? 

His wanderings took him through Alexandria and down to the harbor. He let his mind drift, as he walked sedately along the shore. The burnt orange sun was low on the horizon, giving the sky incredible swirls of color. Even though he appreciated the beauty, it was the sight of the waves lapping upon the sand that now captivated his attention. Sand represented dryness and thirst, yet here it existed simultaneously with life-giving water. How could two such opposites be so close to each other?

Just past the bustling harbor, Methos saw a small hut. A figure was outside the door, sparring with an invisible enemy. Since there was no feeling of another immortal close, he was not concerned. As his steps brought him nearer, he recognized the warrior to be Antony. He had forgotten that the Roman was hiding so close to the palace.

The Roman lowered his sword and called out, "Greetings, harper. Have you come to sing a tribute to the valor of Marcus Antony at the battle of Actium?" Sarcasm dripped like honey off a cake.

"I was not there," Methos responded as he came closer, "so I don't have the needed inspiration in order to compose a fitting epic. However, I have heard enough fodder to describe how a once brilliant commander has forsaken his army and now hides to lick his wounds."

"Treacherous bard. You belittle me greatly."

"I have done nothing but repeat what I have heard."

Antony's face became red as he lifted his sword so that its tip was up against Methos's chest. "You mock my defeat. They vanquished me by land and by sea. I have no other recourse but to live the rest of my life in isolation so as to not bring shame upon," his voice broke and the anger in his voice changed to despair, "Cleopatra."

"I do not ridicule the fact you lost the battle, but how you are acting after the defeat. You languish by the sea, fighting unseen enemies, growing morose from an unoccupied mind, while the rest of your men are ripe for Octavian's spies to convert them to his side. What soldier obeys a weak leader?"

"I cannot fault them for self-preservation. I have lost; they need to see to their future. I can secure them nothing."

"You wait for Neptune to carry you to his watery depths?"

"Or a powerful Roman general to end my life here on the beach."

"Do you talk of General Constantine? I hear he is taken with the queen's handmaiden, Nefetiri. He has not the inclination to trouble you."

Antony waved the sword in the air. "It could be anyone who desires Caesar's goodwill."

"Have you no heart to fight against this fate? How can you be content to wait for a coward's death? You are a soldier; you should die on the battlefield, preserving what you love best."

"Are you trying to incite me to war?" The sword tip was back against Methos' chest.

"The queen despairs. She makes all the decisions not knowing whether you are to be counted on or not. Octavian moves against Egypt. She is rallying her forces, but the Roman legions stationed here will not fight for her against Rome. They will die for you, though. But where is their leader?" Methos leaned into the sword and he felt it penetrate his skin before Antony withdrew it slightly. "He is afraid of what people think of him." Methos let him digest that truth.

"It isn't that!" Antony screamed with anguish. "I am not worthy to lead troops. My judgments are faulty, and I am unfit--"

"You are unfit as long as you hide. Come out. Join in making the battle plans. If you don't, you may not find them to your liking," Methos warned, hoping this might motivate him.

"You are very brave to continue ranting with my blade against your heart." 

Methos groaned inwardly. Antony was changing the subject. "I would die by your sword thrust gladly, if it would bring you back from this netherworld you inhabit."

Antony lowered his weapon. His empty eyes were now at least looking at him with curiosity. "You are a very strange bard. You look like any number of students and scholars that abound in this city, yet your words are that of a soldier."

"I am many things, Triumvir. What are you?"

Antony straightened. "A leader of men?"

"Say it with meaning. I am a leader of men!"

Antony smiled. "I am a leader of men!" His voice rang with conviction. "I have wine in my humble home. Come share it with me and tell me more about yourself. What campaigns have you fought in?"

Methos should have known that Antony's curiosity once aroused would not be satisfied with misdirection. He gave the Roman an innocent smile, while inside he was exultant with his victory.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Methos returned to the library knowing that his time was now limited to days. Octavian was reported first to be in Antioch and then he had left, heading south. That was less than five hundred miles from Egypt's eastern border. Gallus, who headed another Roman army, was sitting less than two hundred miles to the west. Methos knew that he'd have to head south to remain out of the war. He didn't want to fight for either side. The vision of blood splattering the marble statues and axes hacking away at the temples was enough to make him physically sick. He would not witness it.

Cleopatra did not call him to her chambers to listen to bardic tunes. It was reported that Antony had returned to the palace and that they were deep into war council. This pleased the old Immortal. They deserved to die together. Roman dominance over Egypt was inevitable; he just hated seeing a warrior defeated by cowardice instead of a blade.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

All over Alexandria, the people were throwing banquets. Antony and Cleopatra produced one that rivaled all. She wore a scarlet Grecian gown with pearl border and gold fringe. Her dark hair was in braids with some loose along her cheeks. Phidias had made sure that Methos was invited, although he would have preferred to forgo it altogether. Many of the city aristocrats were present, as were the Romans who remained true to Antony. They were bedecked in bright colors and sparkling jewelry. The overpowering scent of expensive perfumes and bouquets of flowers competed with the aromas of different exotic plates of food scattered around the room. Oxen were roasted over pits, staggered so that there was fresh meat whenever someone wished.

Methos stood in one corner with his arm draped around Phidias's shoulder. She was curled into his embrace and seemed to enjoy their closeness. Several of her fellow handmaidens came over to induce her to join their festivities, but she declined. Methos gave her a squeeze after each left and she rewarded him with a seductive smile.

"I would rather be with you," she insisted.

As the evening progressed, Methos became more sullen. Drink flowed freely and the people became more spirited. Labrienus strode over and chided his friend. "Come, Metopholus. We are having a debate on the merits of rushing out to meet our destiny or having it come knocking at the door. You must have an opinion?"

Methos felt his lip curl in distaste. "I much prefer to meet it head-on," he replied, hoping that his friend would now leave him alone.

Labrienus stood there, waiting for more, and when Methos refused to utter anything new, he shrugged his shoulders and returned to the cluster of students.

"They feel sorry for you, standing only with me as you watch them."

Methos knew that Phidias was correct. They were trying to humor him into the same bizarre behavior that had taken over the room. The upcoming war was not something they should be celebrating. Instead they should be planning, doing war drills, fixing their armor. Even Cleopatra acted like an indulgent mother in catering to Antony's whims. The Roman general indeed was quite drunk with his role as host and entertainer. He flitted from one group to another filling their cups with sweet wine. Methos tried to avoid him, but in the end was unsuccessful.

"Thank you, Phidias, for bringing our beloved bard to the banquet. Just think, you won't have to sing for your supper tonight. It is free to all our friends. Eat and be merry." Antony stopped as if a thought had come to mind. Methos dreaded what the Roman would say next. Thankfully, he left their side and went to the center of the room. There he stood upon the couch.

"Friends, long ago we had a brotherhood that we called the Amimetobioi, the Incomparable Livers. We dressed in elaborate disguises and tried to outdo ourselves in pleasure and drink. But today, in these different times, I propose we form a different kind of society and call it Synapothanoumenoi, We Who Will Die Together. Let us seal the pact by dancing around the chamber. It will be a dance of death and Hades will lead us." He went to jump down off the couch and ended up tripping onto his knees. With only a self-conscious laugh, he stood and grabbed the nearest woman's hand.

Methos was ashamed of the display, but could do little. The others around him ignored the drunken fall and proceeded to dance as instructed. They took each other's hands and formed a circle, first moving slowly, then as the music went faster so did their feet.

"I have no stomach for this," Methos told Phidias. "Let us go to your rooms."

She agreed without question and they retired from the royal party. Methos made love to her first as a desperate man, needing to forget the despair felt by everyone at the party and the regret in his own heart that this would be his last time with her. It was time for him to leave Egypt. He would pack his belongings and leave quietly that night, without saying goodbye to anyone. It was better that way. With everyone he knew at the royal farce, it would be easier to make his escape now. Then he reverently held her, memorizing every silky inch, kissed her hair and throat. After she had reached fulfillment, he lay curled around her until deep sleep claimed her weary body. Once more he kissed her lips, and then he departed.

He ran to his room and silently packed the last few scrolls. There was no time to take the last batch to the desert to hide. His other meager belongings he stuffed into a sack and carried it effortlessly out of the dormitories. As he walked along the roads of Alexandria, he wished her a tearful goodbye--until the next time. The south beckoned him. The Nile was beginning its flooding and life would begin anew. 

He walked for a short time when the presence of another Immortal hit him. Gaicus was standing next to a tree, staring at him.

"Fleeing, Metopholus?"

"I have no stomach for another war."

"This one will be won quickly, with very little destruction."

"I have a mind to go south, to Heliopolis."

"One of us lives there. A great historian named Manetho. Do you know him?" Gaicus had a wary, distrustful look on his face.

"Not yet. I think I will study with him." Methos saluted the Roman and turned down the path. Gaicus stayed leaning against the tree. Methos could feel the other Immortal's eyes on him for a long time.

Once the idea had taken root, he became eager to meet this historian. Maybe he had more information on this fabled Methuselah Stone and the different mortals who were able to live long lives.

****

The End

Author's Notes:

1. Laodicea was a center of banking and exchange at this time. It was located on the common road from Rome to its southern provinces. It was known around the world for its eye salve and had a prestigious medical center. On the hills around the city, black sheep grazed and their black wool was much sought after.

2. The facts on the famous Lighthouse and many of the ancient Egyptian details that I've used for the backdrop for my flashbacks were derived from Margaret George's book, The Memoirs of Cleopatra. In some ways the flashbacks could be considered a Xover. 

3. Metopholus was a name listed in the Watcher CD that Methos had used as an alias.

4. Apollonius was named the head librarian of the Museion in George's book.

5. The characters of Nebamun, Labrienus, Martius, Arqamani, Phidias, are all my invention, although the names themselves were taken from George's book.

6. Gaicus was listed in the Watcher CD as an immortal born in 201 BCE. It also states that he is a medical doctor, but not when he obtained his degree. I assume that if he was a doctor in modern times then he must have been some kind of scholar or healer during Cleopatra's reign.

8. The name and meanings of Amimetobioi, the Incomparable Livers, and Synapothanoumenoi, We Who Will Die Together, are taken directly from George's book. 

7. Manetho was a historian commissioned by the first Ptolemy to write a history of Egypt and compile a list of all the pharaohs. I invented the dissertation on the beginning of time.


End file.
